


Eternal know how

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [105]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Somewhat Pre-Relationship, Trans Character, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:02:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28735419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Brief warning due to it making even me ever so slightly uncomfortable: technically it's not exactly being "outed" due to the nature of the context, but at the same time it is.Don't know how exactly to write that out in tags, so the warning is here instead.
Series: DS Extras [105]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	Eternal know how

**Author's Note:**

> Brief warning due to it making even me ever so slightly uncomfortable: technically it's not exactly being "outed" due to the nature of the context, but at the same time it is. 
> 
> Don't know how exactly to write that out in tags, so the warning is here instead.

It was fairly normal, to have someone come stumbling into camp with some injury or other, oftentimes needing a bit of help, an extra hand to get cleaned up. Sometimes it was more than one person, two or three who had gone off hunting or got ambushed by hounds or wandered into a less explored area of the map and ended up in the path of something a bit more dangerous than expected.

It was more unusual, however, to see one of those coming in actually be _Maxwell._

Wilson had gotten up the instant he had heard the hollering, Woodie's loud voice bellowing out for some aid, and the alchemy machine was still wide open with its wired guts out on display but the instant the woodsman got past the camp walls, dragging the former Nightmare King in along with him, he had darted over to the medical chests and was already grabbing bandages and salves and poultices as quickly as possible. Not everyone was in camp at the moment, Wigfrid out to herd beefalo, Webber and Walter following her instruction, Wickerbottom had taken a trip to the pig village with a very grumpy, grounded-from-her-lighter Willow at her side, and Wolfgang helping Wx78 down in the caves for the last few days, Wortox flickering around camp hours ago before leaving downwards to join them.

That sort of left only him for a lot of the more pressing matters; while both Wes and Wendy could certainly take control of difficult situations, this sort of issue needed more of his intuition than theirs.

That was already fairly apparent, as Wilson hurriedly made his way over with a pack stuffed haphazardly with supplies; Wes flitted around the woodsman, face drawn in a deeply sympathetic frown, looking a bit helpless as Maxwell swayed, Woodie trying to keep the older man up and balanced. 

"-got a bit distracted out there, treeguard caught us both unprepared." The man looked up, took note of the pack as Wilson swung it around and waved Wes over, his face turning into a slight tense scowl as the older man at his side slumped a bit more heavily on him. "It didn't get me all too bad, a few scratches, but it almost took out this ol' hozer cause he wasn't paying attention."

"I was _distracted_." Maxwell hissed low, a bit sluggish, one hand clutching at Woodie for support while the other was circled close over his chest, pulling his suit jacket tightly over himself. The fabric was already beginning to stain, a deep black crimson seeping through.

Wilson shoved a few salves and round rolls of bandage into Wes's waiting hands, the mime's frown growing impatient somewhat, and from what he could see Woodie was injured, blood had welled up at his shoulder and and he stood unevenly, weight held off one leg. 

"There are rules for cutting down trees for a reason. Did neither of you even bother to check if any treeguards were around before starting?" Only a faint hint of accusation had entered his voice, Wilson was already distracted enough with evaluating the danger of each visible injury, but his tone did make the woodsman roll his eyes, a well humored huff of a chuckle escaping him. 

"It was a new forest, shouldn't have had an older guardian for at least another few generations." Woodie shook his head, and when Wes came to his side, one arm bundling up the salves and the other offered up, the man took the opportunity to shuffle to the given aid. "I'll own up to it bein' my fault, fine, but I wasn't the one to get near skewered by an ent, eh?"

Wilson had already situated himself at the other man's side, let Maxwell lean against him after a stubborn moment where the former Nightmare King attempted to stay standing up straight, dark eyes squeezed shut and face pulled in a deep glowering snarl. He didn't get any back up answer from the old man, only weight leaned against him and the deeper pain tremors that were still very, very faint, but the silence was enough for Wilson to figure who needed the more extensive treatment.

"Wes, I'll take Maxwell into the med tent; you can take care of Woodie?"

The man nodded, painted face flashing a somewhat lopsided smile, and Woodie huffed out a laugh, shook his head as he allowed Wes to lead him to one of the log benches by the empty firepit. 

"I'm good, Wilson, don't worry about me. I'm all fine, right as rain! Nothin' a little tree can do to me!"

Wes shot him a look while Woodie seated himself, eyebrows drawn up and wide eyes looking at him for direction, so Wilson, very badly and yet as best as he could with his hands full, made a brief sign that indicated past his nose and then a wiggle of his claws in a drifting wave.

Thankfully Wes got his clumsy meaning, even as Wilson took Maxwell by the arm to start leading him to the nearby tent, and the mime darted away from Woodie's rambling for a moment to go digging into a chest, quickly pulling out handfuls of petals and flowers. 

Wilson had to leave it in the other man's hands; treeguards can cause a serious blow to ones mentality if looked at too closely, thought about for too long, and the living trees always did seem to unnerve Woodie a little bit too much at times. His injuries hadn't left him incapacitated, so Wes should be able to patch him up quick enough.

The clacking grind of stone against stone affirmed Wilson's confidence in the other man; Wes had gone for the ice box as well, pulling out more petals, small jars of honey and packs of ice - tea would probably do them all some good. Wilson made an internal note to thank the man sometime later for the quick thinking.

As for Maxwell, well…

Wilson could feel blood start to stain his own clothes, seeping to his rolled up sleeves as he carefully guided the swaying man into the tent, ducking in himself and leaving the evening chill air behind. Getting the old man onto the makeshift cot wasn't any issue, and neither was dumping the salves and bandaging off to the side, and then Wilson turned away for a moment to fiddle with the lantern hung up from a hook at the top, shining some light for him to work under.

Maxwell had curled in on himself in those few seconds, shoulders drawn forward, arms curled around himself and gloved hands grabbing tight to his suit jacket, and his wrinkled old face was curled and tensed in obvious pain but he squinted his pitch black eyes open anyway, voice a hissing waver as he glared at Wilson.

"If you..don't mind, I can take care of myself, just fine." Maxwell hissed in strained breaths of air between his words, an obvious quake rising through his shoulders now, and blood had started to soak into the cot and dribble to the ground, a dark, shimmery pool oily under the lantern light as he curled in on himself even tighter.

Wilson didn't even give any sort of answer to the old man's words, squashed down that tempting urge to roll his eyes, and instead had already decided to get the situation under control whether Maxwell liked it or not.

"If you're as badly injured as Woodie believes you to be, I don't think now is the time to turn away any help offered to you." The old man squinted a glare at him, opened his mouth with a sharp toothed scowl already painted on his face, but Wilson wasn't going to have any of that. "You're bleeding everywhere already, let me fix you up and then you can go sulk about it somewhere else if you want."

That made Maxwell's glower even stronger, setting his jaw, but by then Wilson had grabbed his folded arms, easily tugged them away from his chest and obvious abdomen injury, mind already turning over and over itself as he noted the soaking through dark blood, the symptoms of faint respiratory distress, the obvious shock and pain response. His dull clawed hands went to the man's suit jacket, half undone already, the blood speckled clothing underneath, a vest and looser undershirt perhaps-

And then his thought process got knocked into a stutter when Maxwell suddenly shoved a hand at his shoulder and pushed him back ever so slightly.

Those dark eyes were open now, narrowed in a stiff, unpleasant glare, old wrinkled face grit tight in both pain and discomfort, and Maxwell bared a snarl at him for a moment, thin chest heaving as his other hand went back to draw his jacket tighter about himself.

"I said I will be _fine._ " The former Nightmare King practically growled, a sharp hissing inhale tinted with thick pain, before it escaped him in a whistled ragged exhale. "I don't need your...your help."

Wilson took a slight step back as Maxwell shoved him, not enough strength to make him go anywhere but the meaning _very_ clear as the old man curled up on himself once more.

_Don't touch me._

There were probably a good few reasons, the former Nightmare King had his secrets and for all Wilson cared he could keep them, but this..wasn't exactly the time.

"You're going to bleed out if you don't get that looked at and treated, and while I'm sure some don't mind _I_ don't want to be the one hauling your corpse out of camp today." Frustration laced his voice, as Wilson's face turned firm, a sour scowl leveled at the old man even as Maxwell bowed his head with a tense hissing exhale of pain, eyes squeezing shut once more for a brief moment. 

When he met more resistance, Maxwell leaning back now, bared snarl and tugging his jacket around himself tightly, the blood now marking his lower abdomen as the main wound, a slightly higher spotting stain indicating a higher side chest wound, Wilson didn't try to hide his irritation at the attitude.

"Knock it off, Maxwell, or so help me I'll have someone hold you down. I'm not going to argue with you on this, so either make this easy and quick or keep being difficult and risk bleeding out."

That made the old man snarl at him, scoot back even more and obviously hurt himself from the tense flinch that it caused, but it didn't stop Maxwell from snapping at him either way.

"If it's such an issue for you, _pal_ , then I'll retire to my tent. I don't remember _asking_ for aid-"

"Woodie dragged you back here saying you nearly got gutted by a treeguard-"

"And the bloody daft fool could have kept his pity and taken care of himself, as if I had _asked_ -"

"You are bleeding everywhere and making a god awful mess-"

"Then I'll be _sure_ to get out of your way, Higgsbury, and get it into your thick skull that I don't need any of your _worthless_ nitpicking-"

"Will you just shut up already, for fuck sake I'm trying to help you!"

Maxwell had made an attempt to stand, a wavering, leaning wobble that made Wilson shove him back down, a bit roughly but at this point not really caring, and he pressed at the old man's shoulders for a moment, forced him to stay down at the faintest hint of a struggle before his dull claws went to that blood soaked suit jacket and started to make an attempt to tug it off.

This time he was halted by a gloved hand grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, a sudden yank that had him a bit closer as those squinted pitch black eyes _glared_ at him, snaggled teeth bared and pale face so much worse for wear from the blood loss.

" _Mind_ yourself, Higgsbury." Maxwell hissed, voice threaded with stringing hints of pain and trembling shock, as well as a thicker, snapping threat. "When I say 'piss off', I mean it."

"Don't be an idiot." Wilson hissed back, met that pain laced scowl with a harsh one of his own. "You're not competent enough to fix yourself up, knock it off with this 'I can mend myself just fine' attitude, it'll get your ass killed much faster than I'm sure you'd like."

His dull claws tightened on the old man's jacket, the slightest movement to begin prying it open, and even though the hand at his shirt collar tightened there was a much more visible tremble in Maxwells arm, his pale face flushed and sickly as he glared at Wilson with bared teeth. 

There was too much blood on the ground, in the air, and at this point Wilson was done with arguing about something this petty. He couldn't even see the logic in it, in Maxwell hiding away in his own tent to mend himself, not when Wilsons more expert hands were right here, and with that he tugged a bit more firmly on the old man's suit jacket, the sodden fabric growing weighted as he almost slid it off Maxwell's bony shoulders.

And then the former Nightmare King made a noise, a sharp hissing exhale, inhale, and Wilson found his shirt collar released in favor of apparently Maxwell curling his arms tightly about himself, glower flickering with a flash of something else besides pain and agitation.

_**"Don't you dare."** _

Maxwells tone gave Wilson pause, stilling as his gaze flicked up to lock with those pitch black eyes, and for a brief moment-

Wilson recognized a certain level of fear that had suddenly bloomed within those empty dark depths.

Maxwell was hissing in shallow breaths by now, respiratory distress as his wounds continued being untreated, the blood puddle underneath growing in size, but his shivering, almost panicked look made Wilson blink, take a second to think.

It thankfully didn't take him long to fit in the pieces, Knowledge sliding around in slimy chunks through the ever twisting tunnels of his mind, an unasked, unknown question calling forth an answer he had learned not quite so long ago rising up once more.

It turned in his head, for a moment, remembering information that had never quite been given to him freely, only learned from within shadow whispers, but Maxwell was still bleeding out, no matter how slowly, and he just did not have the time to go about this in some delicate manner or other.

So Wilson blurted out the first thing that came into his head as full bodied response.

"I already know, Maxwell."

That settled the tense silence into a thick fog for a moment, the former Nightmare King staring at him with empty, flickering pitch black eyes, Wilson's dull clawed hands still clasped to the blood soaked, loose suit jacket.

And then Maxwell hissed out a stuttered, strained exhale, tainted with a soft, pathetic wheeze, and his gaze broke away in a swaying, defeated slow turn. His grip on Wilson's shirt collar loosened entirely, gloved hand hovering uselessly for a moment before dropping to the old mans lap, and his voice, earlier tainted with thick irritation and apathetic uncaring, angry frustration, now weakened into something more feeble and uneasy.

"...Is it that obvious."

Not quite a question, not at all framed as one Maxwell's shoulders slumped in defeat, and perhaps a fair bit of weakened blood loss effects, and Wilson blinked almost owlishly at him.

Knowledge can fill in the details, remind him of that which he may have learned elsewhere, but it still didn't prepare him for this conversation.

"I...no, no I didn't mean it like...like that." Wilson shook his head, wrangled his thoughts back as quickly as he could, drew his focus back to what was important, _Maxwell was bleeding out still,_ and hurriedly got his own explanation out into the open. "Just something I learned from the Throne, not. Not anything to do with…"

For a rather uneasy moment, Wilson almost couldn't fight back the urge to sweep his gaze over the other man, that double glancing check-

_He was pretty sure he knew what the former Nightmare King, once demonic tyrant over the Constant and now another pawn player upon the board, looked like._

He didn't need to double check. There were no discrepancies, not one.

He hesitated for a moment, now vaguely understanding why the old man had been acting so uncooperative, this wasn't the first time Maxwell has been injured badly but Wilson guessed it was the first time he was conscious with an upper body wound, one that needed to be treated.

In the end, however, Maxwell huffed out something that sounded like a sigh, except wavering a bit thin now, going sluggish as he spoke. 

"Do what you will, Higgsbury. I don't care."

Wilson had to bite down the snappy response he had to that, _Maxwell had certainly cared,_ and instead he focused on being a bit more careful, a bit more aware as he started to pull the old man's suit jacket away from being closed over his chest. Maxwell didn't struggle anymore, allowed himself to be guided in raising his arms in slowed, sluggish movements as Wilson pulled the sleeves and got the clothing off entirely, and the fabric was sodden but it wasn't as bad compared to the blood spotted mess that had stained the rest of the old man's clothing.

Not quite a vest, Wilson recognized after a moment; a corset, and not exactly one he was familiar with.

He didn't ask, and Maxwell didn't offer up anything in turn as Wilson busied himself and his mind on focusing upon the still raw injuries. Peeling off the sticky, slightly torn fabric clothing was a hassle, but he bit his tongue whenever Maxwell raised his own shaking hands to help untangle, untie, and unhook a few things.

Wilson had to pause, halt with hesitant hands hovering when Maxwell took the moment to suck in a shuddering breath of deep air, only the faintest rattle gracing those old lungs, the even more dragging shallowness of pains and agonies settling more fully over him.

And then he focused again, went back to work. These wounds needed to be treated.

The white undershirt underneath was a thin fabric, pasted with that black crimson thick blood, badly torn from the entry point of those wounds, and a few sticks and leaves and needles were still stuck here, making Wilson have to take the time to scrape them away, pick and toss to the floor and drying ugly pool of blood.

It was a good thing Maxwell bled so slowly, though a good amount had been spilled and the aftereffects of such blood loss were going to affect him quite badly for the next few days. Wilson made a mental note of that, assuring himself that he would make it a habit to check in once in awhile later.

It felt almost as if there should have been an awkward pause, a brief moment where Wilson almost floundered at the idea, and then his more logical side came crashing, snuggling back in and Wilson tightened his focus and recognized that there was no reason for him to deviate from just patching up a few severe wounds.

He didn't ask anything, dull claws carefully unbuttoning the undershirt up from the bottom, halting for a moment at the halfway point as he recognized that he probably didn't need to force Maxwell to expose himself even more so-

Before the old man hissed out a huff of exasperation, laced with thick, held in pain, and reached up with tremor ridden gloved hands and made the task of shedding the bloodied shirt his own.

Wilson had the decency to keep his focus entirely on the entry wounds, the deep gashes, the wood and splinters and bark and needles still caught almost grotesquely with pale, torn skin. 

This, he recognized, was much easier to work with. Wilson knew wounds, all sorts, all kinds.

Hell, he could probably treat near anything by now, since he's suffered almost everything that a person could suffer in this place.

Such thoughts helped ease up the awkwardness, Maxwell sitting before him, shirtless and upper body bare, face twisted in a tense, pain riddled masked expression, dark gaze squinted at nothing in particular. It wasn't exactly a pleasant experience, patching up grotesque wounds, but it was made a bit worse just by the awkward invasion of privacy.

So, Wilson focused, dull clawed hands spreading salve as careful as he could atop torn, stripped flesh, pasting poultice solutions atop larger swathes of raw skin, _nothing too heavily punctured, just a bit of heavy bleeding due to surface deep slices and flaying-_

And the small talk rose up without much of his input, born from the vaguest need to alleviate the nervous, awkward air, even for a brief moment.

"...I don't remember a lot, from the Throne." Wilson slapped another poultice atop the higher up wound, gaze pinned on torn flesh and dribbling black crimson blood, nowhere else, no expanse of pale skin and lined indents from constricting clothing, the wear of such things on a body for all too long- "Just a few things, sometimes. I don't mean to remember them, not all the time."

Maxwell huffed at him, a quick glance showing that the old man had his eyes shut tight, hands curled into fists in his lap, his back having straightened up and only trembling slightly with each accidental or professional doctored touch of Wilson's dulled claws, and then his gaze snapped back to the wounds, the slowing of blood flow, the easing up of inflamed flesh as the salves and poultices did their work.

"They sort of just...pop up, when I least expect them to. Or want them to."

When he got no answer, no form of it, tense air going ever so slightly more so as Wilson started to unfurl the bandages, getting ready to do more touching that he should be ready for, mending wounds was something he's done for so long now, his own and others, even Maxwells, back before the second portal was compete, _there was no difference right now, none at all-_

"I...just a few days ago, actually, I remembered something that I don't think I should...should really know." He paused, chewed on his lower lip as his dull claws carefully started to wrap the wounds as best as he could, encircling the old man's shrunken, hollow abdomen with the silk bandaging. "I had just been talking to Willow, you see, and then she had went off to go get some charcoal. Wickerbottom had suggested she go out, said something about her getting a bit out of hand lately."

Every time his dull claws brushed against pale skin he could feel Maxwell tense up, the pulled frowned glower on his face twisting into an even tighter snarl, pitch black eyes still shut tight, and Wilson internally cursed himself for it, _he's known about this for awhile, from the Throne, from living with the other man for who knows how long before the second portal that brought everyone else in, he knew already so this shouldn't be some problem now-_

"And I, I was thinking about it, watching her run off to go get some torches. She had been smiling, because it was Willow and she had just been told she could go light some fires, explosive uncontrollable ones out in the middle of nowhere, and I…" Wilson trailed off for a moment, focus caught up in tying a knot to keep the bandaging together, tongue poking out from his lips as his claws dragged on the silk before finally getting it done just right. 

"I remembered something, about her. Something about Willow I'm sure she wouldn't want anyone else to know."

Here he stopped, as he leaned back to sweep a critical gaze over his handiwork, and there was no blood spotting, the salves had stopped all that wonderfully. 

Maxwell squinted his eyes open, still a glare on his face, and only a moment passed in tense silence before his hand shot out in a reach for his dirtied undershirt.

"Oh, wait a moment, Maxwell. I think we have a few clean things stored away in here."

His words halted the old man's grab, and that dull pitch black glare leveled at him as Wilson awkwardly stood up in a hurry, trying to not make it look like a hurry the entire time as he went to dig into one of the tents small chests. The shirts and trousers inside were of varying sizes, childs all the way to extraordinarily buffed, and finally his claws snagged on something that looked to be a right size, a dark cardigan, only slightly worn out from who knows who, given freely ages ago for the purpose of replacing ruined clothing.

 _Disilluminated black_ , Wilson thought idly to himself as he handed it over to the old man, who only gave it a brief appraising look before stoically pulling it on.

Maxwell didn't say a word, only the slightest curl of a snarl showing a deep displeasure, faint twitches of pain still left, and Wilson had to take in a steadying breath, clacking his dull claws together for a moment in the awkward quiet.

Before getting his voice back.

"The thing that I know, about Willow? It's sort of a secret, something I shouldn't know about her, what she hasn't shared with anyone else. I mean, her mental state is certainly something to pay attention to, no one wants a burned down camp, but I shouldn't know such _detailed_ things about her mind as I do-"

"Just spit it out, Higgsbury." Maxwell didn't look at him, plucking at the cardigans sleeves with a dissatisfied look, lips curled into a sneering snarl. "I don't have all day to devote to listening to your inane rambling."

Usually such words were said with a hint of sarcastic mocking, a tease in tone, but Maxwells voice was devoid of emotion, devoid of anything but a blank, grating void of emptiness.

It made Wilson sputter, huff as his claws clasped together in a satisfying click of noise, before he quickly rounded up his thoughts into a cognitive pile.

"I just, I think I just want to say that, no matter the things I know now, the things I learned about everyone that no one else knows...none of it is my business?" He paused, words out of his mind and mouth now, watched as Maxwell didn't give much reaction, only stilled his fiddling with his temporary clothings fabric weave. "It's not something I should know about, so I just. Don't think about it? Who am I anyway, to know every little secret everyone around me keeps? It's none of my damn business."

Maxwell startled him with a sharp sound, a wheezed, swaying hiss of noise that morphed into a bark of a laugh, condescending in nature as he turned a blank, pitch black void eyed stare at him. There was a grinning sneer on his face, yet no humor reached his empty eyes, nothing but a displaced space, dissociated and distanced, a mask on over top it all.

"As if it doesn't tempt you, _pal_. Don't act so high and mighty; all the information in this world, all at your fingertips, and you tell me it's 'none of your damn business'." Another humorless laugh escaped him, sharp, almost piercing as a thread of something else seemed to pick its way through his demeanor, and Maxwell shook his head with a hissing exhale. "Don't try and tell me nothing ever sparked your interest, ever had you go digging in places you were never allowed to be in."

Here he paused, deep in thought, before Maxwell heaved a sigh.

"I suppose even as dapper as I am, not everything goes as planned." He huffed, and Wilson had to look away for a moment as the old man plucked once more at the cardigan, displeasure plain on his face, eyeing the way it hung on him, held to his thin, aging body.

"...it's none of my business, Maxwell." Wilson said, this time with more finality, and he turned his gaze to meet the dull empty pitch black turned to look at him, unamused. "I'm sticking by it, because it's true. What I _Know_ isn't truly what I want to _know."_

Wilson raised a dull claw and tapped at his forehead, where he could just feel the Knowledge as it swayed around inside him, prickling answers to every question he could ever have, person place or thing.

But, in the end, his answer was still the same.

"If I really did want to know something, about someone, I'd just...ask them."

There was a moment of silence, after his words. The former Nightmare King watched him, still pale and woozy from the severe blood loss, the prickling awkwardness of a secret not quite freely given still tainting the very air itself.

And then Wilson made the next move, went over to the bloodied suit jacket that had been dropped at the side, and he hooked it gingerly with his dull claws and weakly shook it out a moment, eyeing the many layered wrinkles and dried dark blood stains-

Before wordlessly handing it over to Maxwell.

"I can wash the rest of your clothing, and repair them too, if you're fine with that. Shouldn't take too long."

Maxwell watched him, wordless for a few moments as he bundled the bloodied suit jacket in his arms, still and masked face expressionless, before the former Nightmare King finally heaved a sigh and shook his head, gaze turning back to his suit jacket.

"I suppose that could make up for this entire debacle." He glanced over to watch Wilson gather up the rest of his clothing, a weary air about him, mixed thick with an exhausted half pain. "Full suits are quite expensive, if you have to know. I'd rather not have to go searching for another in this horrid place."

"You should've thought of that when you created it." Wilson folded up everything as best as he could, minding the still damp blood stains, the loose ties and hooks and such odd pieces, he could never quite get corsets figured out and it would probably take him a while to do so. He might have to ask around, see if anyone else could help him repair the gaping tear this one now sported. "Would've made things a lot easier, if we could just go out walking in the forest and found a fresh pair of underclothes laid out for us."

"What, you think good clothing just grows on trees?" The old man snorted, but inside his firm tone was something a bit lighter, if only for a moment. "It would cost a fortune, dressing you lot up to be acceptable. Not a single one of you would ever make it at a social gathering."

"Good thing I hate parties."

That made Maxwell huff out another sound, this time a more genuine almost laugh, and the air seemed a bit more alleviated now, easier to breath in.

Wilson watched for a moment as the old man slowly shrugged on the suit jacket over top the cardigan, not at all seeming to have difficulty in doing so, and then he was reminded of his focus as Maxwell slowly started to test the waters in standing up.

Maxwell didn't shrug him away when Wilson lent an arm, and coincidently shoulder, allowing the old man to use him as crutch in standing up, and the blood loss was going to keep him out of commission for awhile but so far the pain hasn't quite put him out with shock as of yet. Wilson could at least appreciate that; nursing the former Nightmare King to full health was still a bit much at times, even for him.

When they stepped outside, the ragged, blood soaked clothing bundled into his pack and Maxwell looking quite under the weather but very much not dead yet, the fire had been started up. There was a sleeping mat nearby it, Woodie out cold atop it, the gleam of his red axe held in his arms reflected in the flames light and a heavy laden garland of colorful flowers tucked atop his head, and when Wes noticed them from his spot on the log bench he raised a tired hand in greeting, painted face dragged with the fatigue of someone who had entertained another who had little mental coherency on them at the moment.

Wilson had half a mind to suggest that Maxwell head to bed, but in the end the old man beat him to it as he waved away Wes's offered cup of tea, stating quite clearly that he wished to rest and little else, especially not anything the mime was wishing to give him.

Wilson accepted the offered cup in his stead, the aroma of the forget-me-lots strong and already easing the stress of his mind, and when Wes turned away to focus on the woodmans sleepy mumbles, keeping an ear out for nightmares, Wilson was dragged from his thoughts by the briefest of taps to his shoulder.

Maxwell hovered by him a moment, still swaying somewhat, unrecovered balance that needed rest to heal, his dirtied suit jacket pulled over him tight and firm as he leaned to speak to him and him alone for a moment.

"I would...appreciate it, pal, if you gave a bit of discretion in speaking the things you know to others." Maxwell cleared his throat, dark eyes shining in the fires light, empty abysses of hidden smoke and mirrors and color. " 'Practice what you preach', I purpose."

Wilson would have answered in jest had he not picked up on the thin veins of unease, weary trust hidden underneath the unassuming question of privacy, and when he turned his gaze Maxwell was giving him a very serious, very hard look.

Thankfully he didn't have to think of some extensive answer.

"It's none of my damn business Maxwell." The spark of recognition in those dark eyes almost made Wilson smile, for whatever reason that was out there that might have caused such. "And I'm pretty sure it's no ones but yours, so don't worry. Trust me on that."

There wasn't much trust in the old former Nightmare King's face, not at all a whole lot, but the small amount there was enough for Wilson.

Before Maxwell could fully retreat, however, Wilson suddenly seemed to remember, or better yet piece together his thoughts out, and was able to lightly snag at the old man's arm, just enough to get his attention, as slightly soured and annoyed as it looked now.

"You know, just for the record, Maxwell…"

Wilson gave him a quick look over, dark cardigan and blood stained suit jacket over atop everything else, before looking the old man in the eye.

"If I hadn't had interference, I would have never even guessed."

That seemed to spark something, those pitch black eyes gaining the faintest of glimmers, for only a split second, before Maxwell straightened up with only a slight wobble, dusted off his near ruined suit jacket, holding his head high, and lightly limped his way to his tent to rest, and sleep.

Wilson watched, made sure the old man didn't trip or fall in the process, before he turned his eyes to the cup in his hands, the soothing tea flourishing in warm earthen scents, just enough for his overstressed mind to relax ever so slightly.


End file.
